


Snippets

by SebbyTaylor



Series: Amelioration [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Crossover, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Mention of Off-Screen Death, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:51:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4078651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SebbyTaylor/pseuds/SebbyTaylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock experience the repercussions of Mary's death, faced with the daunting task of looking after the baby who survived and hiding the biggest truth of all. They must deal with what the world throws at them, learn to be parents and rebuild their friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Alignments

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in the Sherlock fandom and I'm still finding my feet with the characterisations so bear with me ;) This work will only have implications of the X-Men fandom but other works in the series will have a greater crossover between the two fandoms. I will try and update weekly on Fridays but it may become a little sporadic midway through July as I'm heading on a gap year to Australia and my internet connection will be iffy but I'll let you know more when it comes to it :) Also, this is un-betaed so any errors are mine and you're welcome to point them out. Hope you enjoy!

_Monday 9 th March, 2015 _

Mary was dead.

Cold and staring unseeingly at the bland morgue ceiling, her modesty was protected only by a white sheet pulled up to her chin while baring her feet, a tag hung from a toe. John desperately wanted to pull the sheet down and keep her feet warm; she hated going to bed without socks on.

_Had hated_.

But, because he’d already seen her, the police were refusing to allow him to see her again, stating her body was now part of evidence in an active investigation. It was a callous and pragmatic way to treat something that had been a living breathing human being less than 24-hours ago, a wife, a mother-to-be, a...

John halted his train of thought. As much as it hurt she had died, the woman he’d fallen in love with was not the woman he had spent the last few months living with. Growing further and further apart they’d become strangers, sharing a house, a life and appearance but, in reality, no more than passing souls, kept together only to be Mary and John for the sake of the child. He swallowed round the horrible burn in the back of his throat, feeling the cramping pain protest in his chest, and steadied his breath as the other events of the day crept into his mind.

Mycroft, with the help of the Professor, who appeared to have some form of compassion, had seemed like he was simply relaying the weather rather than turning John’s whole world tits up. Only Sherlock had looked the part, stood pale and silent behind the sombre-faced men.

Opening his eyes and sitting back, John took in the tiny form within the incubator before him, head shrouded in a woollen hat, a tube threaded through the nose and other ones attached at various points. The most glaring thing though was the large white swathe of gauze over the right hip, half-hidden by the enormous nappy but blatantly showing the child had not escaped unscathed.    

Carrianna Viola Watson, Carrie for short.

Mary and John, in their rare moments of getting along, had pestered Sherlock with names. Many ended up as namesakes of murderers or people Sherlock didn’t like but Carrianna had stumped him. So the name stuck and John didn’t have the heart to change it.

In fact, he didn’t have the heart to do anything.

He’d been lied to by those he thought he knew the most. What does one say to that? To realise that the people he held dear did not trust him with the truth? He would’ve been more understanding of Sherlock's ‘death’ if he’d been informed, felt more comfortable if he’d known of Mary’s true nature and if she’d told him _why_. He was an ex-army doctor with a gammy leg, a bad shoulder and serious trust issues, thriving in the constant threat of danger and wilting in the normalcy of civilian life. He wasn’t a mind-reader or a genius or a secret agent. He was just John Hamish Watson and had become entangled in the biggest web of all.

How was he supposed raise a child with _that_ hanging over his head? Where was he supposed to go after Carrie was discharged from the hospital? There was no way he was going back to the house he and Mary had inhabited; there were too many shared memories pulling at heartstrings. Would Sherlock let him stay at the flat while he hunted for a place? Could he trust Sherlock?

He groaned and ran his hands through his hair, stretching his legs so his feet nearly touched the base of the incubator. Why couldn’t Moriarty have stayed the fuck away and not tempted Sherlock with his morbid games? It would’ve meant he and Sherlock remained together and fuelled the potential which had hummed under every touch, look and word. Sherlock would never have had to ‘kill’ himself, John would never have met Mary, Carrie would never had suffered such a traumatic start to life and maybe, perhaps, he and Sherlock could have had _something_.

Any hope for that was gone now. There was a strained air between them; a show was given to the world that they were okay but, behind closed doors, they were wary of each other. Sherlock seemed ready to try and put things back to how they were – obvious at the stag night, the wedding and his anger towards Magnussen – but John wasn’t ready. Sherlock kept lying to him; Mary, the train carriage. How could he rebuild his life on lies that would crash round his ears once more?

It made sense to ask Sherlock exactly what happened while he was ‘dead’. He hadn’t asked but he’d been more interested in why rather than what, something John knew was stupid. It didn’t take a fool to notice Sherlock was not the man who’d jumped off the roof at Bart’s. John had seen the scars on Sherlock's back, heard the cries at night and noted the way Sherlock, if disorientated, immediately focused on him. Despite his lies and manipulations, Sherlock wasn’t a bad man; he just wanted to protect John, though in a less than conventional way – that much was clear.

John sighed. Why could nothing ever be simple, just for once?

_Because you’d hate it_.

He folded his arms and returned his gaze back to little Carrie, watching her chest flutter up and down with each breath. It was definitely going to take time to get his head round what he’d learnt and Carrie would never know unless it was dire.

‘John?’

He turned to find Sherlock stood in the doorway, wearing his Belstaff with the collar turned up. The dark shadows beneath his eyes were stark against the paleness of his skin and the gauntness of his cheekbones.

‘Yeah?’

Sherlock took a step forward then slowed, glancing down at his shoes before looking back at John. ‘I –’ He faltered to a stop, face blank but eyes so expressive, John looked away in fear of falling into them.

‘What do you want, Sherlock?’ John did _not_ feel like talking to the man who had hidden one of the biggest truths from him. Though Mycroft and the Professor, alongside the whole of S-12, had hidden it for national security, John was pissed Sherlock had not said a _thing_. Perhaps the whole keeping Mary’s true identity secret and not telling him he was alive was rather indicative.

‘I –’ Sherlock stuttered to a stop one more.

‘Either spit it out, Sherlock, or fuck off,’ snapped John.

There was a pause, then, ‘I don’t know what to say.’

The voice was subdued to the point John swivelled round to see Sherlock standing dejected several feet from the back of his chair. He was staring at John as though he was stood back on the roof at Bart’s, clearly regretting his actions but knowing he had done all he could do to protect those closest to him; he looked like a broken man, resigned to a miserable purpose.

‘And what do you want me to say to that?’ demanded John, careful to keep his voice low so as not to disturb the other people in the neonatal unit.

Sherlock said nothing, his face tight, and stepped towards the incubator, eyes focused on Carrie’s form within as his lips thinned, brows drawing down. ‘She’s strong.’

John snorted. He refrained from standing and instead folded his arms, fixing his gaze on some indiscriminate point on the incubator to block out the infuriating man. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘No.’ The movement of Sherlock's head flitted in the corner of John’s eye. ‘I mean – her breathing rate is steady and unimpeded, showing advanced lung development; her heart rate shows no signs of bradycardia, common in preterm infants; her temperature is constant; she has yet –’

‘I _know_ , Sherlock.’ John clenched his jaw as he glanced at him. ‘Doctor, remember?’ Not that this had saved Mary, he mused bitterly, or prevented the horrific events leading to Carrie’s current predicament.

‘She’s strong.’ Sherlock turned to face John, the light from the incubator casting his cheekbones into sharp relief as he slipped his hands into the Belstaff’s pockets. ‘She’s like you.’

‘Sherlock –’ The look thrown John’s way was enough to cut him off; pale blue eyes earnest and honest despite the confusion and exposed lies.

‘ _She’s like you_.’

John frowned, unsure of what to make of the determination hardening Sherlock's voice and setting his shoulders in an unforgiving line. Rising to his feet and wincing as stiff muscles protested, John moved to stand next to Sherlock, gazing down at Carrie. Her dark hair peeked out from beneath the woollen hat, curling at her temples and the base of her neck, and a light flush dusted her cheeks, divulging the life-force flowing inside. Her eyes, when they did flutter open momentarily, were a deep steel blue, framed by a thick fan of sable lashes.

John’s heart twisted. She was so small and dependant and vulnerable it was scary the sudden responsibility he’d been given, no prior knowledge somehow qualifying him to be the custodian of a person, their life and their _soul_. Experiences with him and related to him would shape her personality, her opinions and beliefs, her ambitions and goals; they would be the bulwark that led to who she could become.

_And he had no idea what he was doing_.

Sure, he was a doctor and all, had worked with children at the surgery and done rounds on the paediatric wards. But this? He didn’t want Carrie to be like him, a worn ex-army doctor who had trust issues and only survived with adrenaline racing through his veins, unwittingly dragging him into world of lies, government secrets and manipulation. An innocent life had no right to deserve that, no matter who their parents were. Carrie deserved a stable home, loving parents, a big family – a life free of everything he’d discovered. It was too confusing, too brutal.

‘I’m going to need to find somewhere to live,’ said John, not looking at Sherlock who was statue-still beside him as he continued to watch Carrie.

‘Stay.’

John stared at Sherlock, having expected the man to say nothing to his comment. ‘What?’

Sherlock did not shift his gaze from the incubator as he repeated, ‘Stay.’

‘At Baker Street?’ John frowned. ‘I will while I look for a place.’

‘I want you to stay permanently.’

‘Sherlock, I –’ John halted his sentence as he swivelled to fully face Sherlock who appeared to be resolutely ignoring him, face impassive though his jaw was clenched almost to breaking point. ‘It’s not going to be far. I can’t take Carrie away since she’s every bit yours as she is mine and you have rights to see her but she can’t be –’

‘I may never have said this to you properly John, though you may have inferred so from my best man speech, but you are my best friend.’ Sherlock finally looked up from Carrie and fixed John once more with his ardent eyes, expression now far from blank. ‘I wish for you to remain at Baker Street and for Carrianna to do so as well once she is released.’

John swallowed, trapped between his desire to put some space between himself and Sherlock to work out his true feelings and his want to rekindle their friendship, based new-found truths. The guarded hope slowly blooming in Sherlock's eyes yet almost swamped by the prepared rejection and regret reminded John of the moment on the runway, the world containing only the pair of them as Sherlock bid farewell as though he were merely going on a simple trip and not to his death. His real death, not the complex choreography on Bart’s roof. A small voice slithered through his mind, warning him that of whatever said now would make them good or break them irreparably. But he had Carrie to think of and the life Sherlock led and loved, the life John thrived in, was not for a newborn.

Taking a deep breath and looking at Sherlock, who was still gazing at him as though he held the key to the future, he said slowly, ‘Carrie and I will live at Baker Street on one condition – if she becomes threatened in any way, I leave with her.’ Though Sherlock opened his mouth, John carried on speaking. ‘I’m never going to take her away from you but I will protect her.’

Sherlock nodded once, his relief almost palpable in his slouched shoulders and the softening around his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

John returned the small attempt at a smile with his own and glanced back at Carrie, the new leaf to sort out this whole mess. Though nothing was certain there was one thing John was sure of; he, Sherlock and Carrie would have to stand strong together if they were to make it through the guaranteed highs and lows that were to come.    


	2. For The First Time

_Friday 17 th April, 2015 _

She was beautiful. Even though she was just over a month old, she had kept the perfect nails she was born with, still smaller than half a grain of rice; her cheeks were round and rosy, skin smooth and unblemished, all in the face of the horrific start to life.

John brushed his fingers over Carrie’s forehead, studying the minute flickers across her features as she slept. She’d remained little, hovering at the lower end of the graphs and barely filling her baby-grows but, health-wise, she was fine, thriving under his dutiful care and attention. Her wound had almost healed, though any psychological effects would not be evident until much later.

She gurgled and turned her head as she stretched, her toes just reaching the tip of her baby-grow and hands flexing above the folded sleeves. Dragging a hand across her nose, she settled back into his lap, head at his knees and feet near his stomach.  

Sherlock was watching hawkeyed from the sofa, his verdigris eyes focused on the sleeping bundle, swathed in pink. If it was not for the rise and fall of his shoulders, John could have easily believed he had become calcified, what with his steepled fingers resting below his chin and the cool marble of his pale skin. He looked more like an effigy than a person. John had expected Sherlock to be delighted with the prospect of an extensive study into Carrie, an experiment in the growth and development of a child. Instead, he had circumnavigated round the edge, always near but never involving himself, shying away when offered the chance to help.

Had he had a bad experience in the past with children? Was it because he’d never had to deal with a child? John recalled the piercing scream from the girl in the cruel mockery of Hansel and Gretel when she saw Sherlock. Despite his acerbic replies he was fine John knew Sherlock was shaken by the response. But Alfie from the wedding had been enchanted by him, much to everyone’s surprise, though John suspected it was more to do with Sherlock’s treatment of children as adults than his charm.

Carrie gurgled again and scrunched up her nose. This time, as she stretched, her bright blue eyes fluttered open and almost immediately sought out John’s face. She stared unblinkingly at him and John could not help but grin; her expression of intense concentration was almost a mirror of Sherlock’s.

‘Hello, sweetheart,’ he said, grazing a finger over her cheek. ‘Was that a good sleep?’

She cooed, flexing her hands. John noted Sherlock’s eyes snap to the movement, entranced.

‘You can hold her if you want.’ John pressed the tip of a finger against Carrie’s palm and felt the tiny bands of muscle, skin and bone wrap themselves round it as he watched Sherlock.

Sherlock looked like a deer caught in the headlights. ‘No, I’d rather not,’ he said hurriedly, moving to stand.

Something snapped inside of John, sick to death of seeing Sherlock behave as though Carrie would explode if he came too near. Scooping Carrie up into his arms, he moved rapidly to the sofa before Sherlock was able to stand fully.

‘Sit,’ he ordered, being mindful to keep his tone light so as not to scare Carrie.

‘But –’

John raised an eyebrow, not budging as Sherlock attempted to push past. ‘Sit.’

Sherlock appeared to seriously debate leaping over the coffee table or charging. In the end, he slumped back onto the sofa, the leather protesting, and threw John a look of irritation.

‘I don’t think this is a good idea,’ he said, eyes fixed on Carrie.

Carrie had turned her head to stare at Sherlock. She squeaked, kicked out a leg and continued to stare. John almost laughed; they looked like cats meeting for the first time, obviously curious but sizing each other up.

‘You’ve got to support her head,’ John told him, ignoring his comment. ‘She’s not strong enough to hold it up properly yet.’

Sherlock’s expression was wide-eyed and his shoulders were pressed hard into the back of the sofa. ‘John, I really don’t –’

Bending down, John carefully placed Carrie in Sherlock’s arms, positioning them to ensure she was comfortable and gauging Sherlock’s response. He stepped back, feeling the edge of the coffee table dig into his calves.

Sherlock completely froze. He held Carrie as though she was overtly dangerous, a bomb without a count-down, entrusted to his care.

Carrie had yet to break her stare, spellbound by the face above hers. She gurgled and reached out a hand, fingers twitching as they brushed Sherlock’s lips, no fear in her expression.

It was as though someone had cut his strings as Sherlock slouched, the tension leaving him in a rush of air, and he pressed his lips to her hand. Whatever concerns he seemed to have harboured within that ceaseless mind of his vanished to leave behind a visibly relieved Sherlock. The sight sent a wave of warmth through John but he didn’t look too closely at it.

‘You can help me look after her.’ John perched himself on the edge of the sofa beside Sherlock.

‘I know, I just –’ Sherlock shook his head though did not move his gaze away from Carrie who’d dropped her hand. ‘It hardly matters.’

‘What is it, Sherlock?’

‘I –’ he began then closed his mouth clenching his jaw. Carrie babbled for a moment before closing her eyes, shifting a hand to the front of his shirt. ‘She’s very small.’ His voice was strangely quiet.

‘Yes, but she won’t break.’ John knew only half the issue had been voiced though it was better than nothing. ‘She’s shown us that already.’

Sherlock lifted a hand and trailed a finger down her nose. ‘I know,’ he said, tone still quiet.

John did not press further, knowing Sherlock would tell him in his own time. Instead, he watched Sherlock and Carrie. Regardless of never having been held by Sherlock, Carrie appeared to be more than comfortable with him, implicitly trusting. It sent a honey-like buzz racing in his veins.

‘John?’

‘Hmm.’

‘Thank you.’

John reached over and brushed a strand of Carrie’s dark hair from her forehead before turning his gaze to Sherlock, meeting his chartreuse eyes. ‘You’re welcome, Sherlock.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked! :) Next update - June 20


	3. Lullabies

_Monday 27 th July, 2015_

John was questioning whether his decision to leave Carrie with Sherlock was the best option as it had been when the surgery had called. Mrs Hudson was visiting her sister so the only person left to mind her was Sherlock. Carrie was not being easy at present, refusing to sleep for more than four hours and being highly fussy about everything. Sherlock had held her a few more times and occasionally helped but, aside from that, he’d done nothing except observe avidly from the sidelines.

Taking a deep breath and feeling his shirt stick to his back, John paused outside 221 Baker Street, listening for the sound of grousing. There was no noise, not even a drone from the ceaseless traffic that provided the soundtrack to London. It was as though the summer’s heat had silenced the sleepless city into a stupor. With a sense of foreboding, John shouldered open the door, continuing to listen out for Sherlock and Carrie.

‘Sherlock?’ he called, closing the front door and slowly ascending the stairs to the flat. ‘Sherlock, where are you?’

There was no answer and John’s heart rate immediately picked up. He used to laugh when he watched fathers panic, always over-reacting at their child simply moving two millimetres from the line of sight or squealing in delight rather than pain. Now, the worst case scenario filled his mind, followed by something even direr. Had something happened to Carrie? Had Sherlock taken her to hospital and not had a chance to call him? Was that why was Sherlock not responding? Had something happened to them both? Was the heat too much?

He raced into the living room, ready to fight when relief flooded through him, heavy and downy feather-light enough to make his knees weak. Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa and, sound asleep much like Sherlock, was Carrie, curled up on his chest and sucking a thumb. She wore nothing more than a nappy whilst Sherlock was merely dressed in loose pyjama bottoms and a baggy t-shirt, his bare feet pressed against the end of the sofa. John took a moment to take the sight in, both whirlwinds calmed and peaceful. Carrie had grown rapidly, almost average height and weight, and had acquired a mass of dark hair that never seemed to flatten. There were no ominous signs of any issues from her brutal start to life, her wound having healed to a neat pink scar and no anomalies showing within her development.

Sherlock looked young, his face smoothed by sleep. His eyelashes formed sable fans above the high crest of his cheekbones and the sunlight streaming in through the windows turned his usually pale skin to a mellow glow, giving life to the monochrome creature most people saw. His t-shirt had ridden up slightly from the waistband of his pyjama bottoms to reveal a thin sliver of toned stomach, rising and falling as he slept. John’s mouth went dry as an onslaught of fantasies assailed him, the predominant involving him dragging his tongue along the exposed flesh while Sherlock writhed underneath him. Shoving the images aside and attempting not to take notice of the torrid heat pooling low in his stomach, he squatted down beside Sherlock’s head. It was not the first time the man had triggered such thoughts, nor the first time John had been forced to suppress the rising tide that threatened to overwhelm him. He placed a hand on the mass of serpentine curls, trying to ignore the way they wrapped lovingly round his fingers and sent a thrill through him.

‘Sherlock?’ he said, tongue thick. He swallowed, shifting his hand to wake him. ‘Sherlock?’  

A deep sound, which shot straight to the heat in John’s stomach, rumbled from Sherlock’s chest as he blearily opened an eye, slowly focusing on John. The other slid open and the intense laser-like gaze was directed at him.

‘That was _not_ meant to happen.’ Sherlock glanced down at Carrie before returning to look at John. ‘I rather intended to use the silence to think.’

John bit the inside of his lip to prevent himself smirking at Sherlock’s irked expression, the frisson in his stomach shifting to a honey-like warmth. ‘How long has she been asleep for?’

‘Two hours and twenty minutes once I quietened her. She began crying five minutes after you left.’

John gaped at him. ‘How did you manage that?’

Sherlock’s expression became discomforted. ‘I resorted to singing “ _All Through the Night_ ”,’ he replied shortly. ‘Mummy used to sing it to me.’

The idea of listening to Sherlock’s deep baritone as he sang parched John’s mouth. Somehow, he managed to keep a straight face. ‘And what? She just fell asleep?’

‘To be precise, she ceased crying and grumbled for half an hour before falling asleep.’

‘You do realise this means the next time she wakes up screaming in the middle of night, you’re dealing with her,’ John pointed out, straightening and feeling his knees pop.

Sherlock scowled. ‘Just because she fell asleep this time does not mean she will do so the next. Her response merely implies it is more probable.’

‘You’re still dealing with her.’

‘I don’t think that’s –’

John fixed him with a warning look. ‘You’re more than capable of handling a baby, Sherlock. You’ve just done it for the last four hours. I don’t care what’s going in that massive head of yours but you’re going to help me more than you are now.’

‘John, I –’

‘Look,’ he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘I’ve already had enough of people shouting at me today. I don’t want to get into an argument over this.’

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. ‘Hyperthermia?’

‘Two cases. Why the parents didn’t just take them straight to the hospital is beyond me.’ John dropped gratefully into his chair, kicking off his shoes. ‘The first mother refused to believe me and the father of the second expected me to do something miraculous. I’m a doctor, not a miracle worker.’

‘You have your moments,’ came a mumbled reply.

John smiled at the response but said nothing, choosing instead to listen to the summer silence.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like! :) Next update June 26


	4. Lewd and Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos! The increase in rating is due to John's dirty thoughts ;p If you don't like porn, skip this chapter

_Wednesday 3 rd February, 2016_

Warm curves...

Tumbling hair...

Full lips...

John groaned and twisted his hips as the images shifted, lines becoming longer, sharper, sheets dragging over sensitive flesh. The sounds echoing in his ears dropped by at least an octave, vocal and appreciative of his ministrations.

He’d never been one to deny the broad outline of the male figure, had experimented opening throughout university and formed a few covert relationships on tour. However, simplicity in civilian life had led him to dating women only.

But it didn’t mean he couldn’t let his imagination go every now and then, exploring hard planes, feeling stubble rasp against his skin and having the undeniable ridge of arousal press against his hip. It wasn’t often he did this. Though, what with the late shift last night and the fact Sherlock had picked Carrie up earlier when she started grousing, he had a moment of free reign to do as he pleased. He also hadn’t allowed himself this for a while after Mary’s death, too caught up in his guilt for being a little relieved she was dead, too busy looking after Carrie, too focused on others to care for himself.

_Now_ , he thought with a twist of his hips, _just a.._.

Rolling over to press his aching cock into the mattress, John drew the dirtiest fantasies from the depths of his mind and screened them across his closed lids, the images flickering as the scenes and individuals altered to his current taste. There were dark serpentine curls, glazed viridian eyes, ridiculous cheekbones... John bit the inside of his cheek to prevent a breathless moan slipping out as he slid a hand down between the bed and his body, dragging nails over tingling skin. This time, the moan slithered free as fingertips grazed his length, his mind’s eye supplying him with a pair of sinfully provocative lips wrapping themselves round the head of his prick.

_Oh, God_...

Sherlock hadn’t been a feature of his imaginings for some time, especially after his return from ‘death’ since almost any thought of him had triggered anger and resentment. A fleeting sensation of guilt glimmered in John’s chest as he considered that Sherlock was probably sprawled out on the sofa downstairs, watching Carrie play, while John jerked off above him, completely unaware of this.

_Actually_...

Sherlock, the enigmatic creature, probably knew _exactly_ what John was doing, had deduced it before the thoughts had even started from the way John was lying on the bed when he’d collected Carrie. He was probably wearing his silk blue dressing gown, its collar drifting off his shoulder and pulling the threadbare t-shirt with it to reveal the sharp line of his collarbones and emphasising the curve of his suprasternal notch.

That dressing gown did things to John he was pretty sure inanimate garments should not do. And he wanted nothing more than to strip Sherlock of it, spread it beneath the stretch of pale skin and worship him into oblivion.

John rolled onto his side so as to better grasp his cock and twisted his palm over the tip, sending a thrill shooting through his pelvis, down his legs and up his stomach. There was nothing wrong with fantasising; no one would get hurt and he deserved a moment’s relief.

Bringing forth Sherlock and the dressing gown, John grasped the base of his cock as he pictured Sherlock above him shrouded in the blue silk, its smooth edge skimming his ribs and thighs while Sherlock's knees were braced either side of his hips, pressing against his sides. Another groan slipped free as curls skimmed the plane of his stomach, sending the muscles fluttering at the fleeting touches, before a wet, sultry heat engulfed him once more. A silver-sharp tongue was tempered to silk and velvet, pressing against his frenulum and sliding through the slit at his cock’s head, setting tremors echoing through his frame.

The tempo of his hand increased, adding more twists of his palm over the sensitive glans and lingering on his sweet spots, pulling his climax out from the depth of his bones. John bit his lip as he brought his other hand to fondle his balls, rolling them between his fingers and sliding back to his perineum, igniting oft neglected nerve-endings that hummed along his molten veins. He could sense the impending onslaught of his orgasm fast approaching and the sensation of it unfurled at the base of his spine, an ever-increasing glow of warmth expanding outwards.

Sinful lips took on a more purposeful approach, mapping out John’s favourite points with an ease his pragmatic half softly reminded could never be real but he pushed those thoughts aside, desperate for release. The feverish burn of his skin licked through his hazy brain and lit up the whirling torrent of fantasies blazing across his mind, each one more vivid in detail than the last – Sherlock heavy on top of him; Sherlock splayed out beneath him; Sherlock's long pale back pressed to his chest so that each bump in his spine was felt.

John’s climax hit him out of the blue, a sudden contraction then expansion from his groin that filled his head with white noise and left him oblivious to everything but the torrid heat flooding his body. Minutes, seconds, _hours_ could have passed for all he cared as he hung suspended in that moment of relief, the weightlessness of his limbs like they were filled with nothing more than mere ether, insubstantial to the world.

He fell slowly into the limbo of dozing, flitting between dreams and reality, never quite conscious though growing increasingly aware of passing time. Sherlock featured several more times in his reverie but it was more comfort than sexual, mixed in with visions of Carrie babbling away and delighting in even the smallest of things. She was infectiously happy despite her inheritance and past, not a care that one father was an unearthly creature with the most human heart concealed within guarded walls and the other father could scarcely function in normality, plagued by nightmares of war but relishing the rush of life it gave.

It was a crash, followed by a surprised exclamation, which yanked John from his trance-like state, his mind forced into the here-and-now of his room, bathed in the pale golden glow of mid-morning winter sunshine leaking round the edge of the curtains. Wrinkling his nose at the encrustation of come on his hand and stomach, he sat up and blinked blearily at the clock on his bedside table, noting his alarm had been switched off.

_Thanks, Sherlock_ , he thought with a small smile, his mind drifting back to its earlier ventures with a wistful sigh. _One can always hope_...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked! Next update - July 3


	5. Jekyll and Hyde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super sorry about the late update! I've been sooooo busy this week and hadn't had a chance to properly edit this chapter.

_Friday 18 th March, 2016_

The link between abnormal weather patterns and the sudden surge in patients was seriously testing John’s patience.

Shouldering open the front door and making a mental note to find some WD-40 and a screwdriver, he pushed it closed, dragging his shoes over the mat before leaning against the wall with a heavy sigh. He was _soaked_ to the point his underwear was sticking to his skin, chaffing in every possible was, and that was nothing compared to the water in his ears – high winds and torrential rains were not a good mix during rush hour.

He pushed himself off the wall and slowly made his way to the stairs, ascending them with squelching shoes; the horrid sensation of tepid water oozing between his toes sent shudders running down his spine.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, he dropped his bag to the floor, toed off his sodden shoes with the intention of placing them on a radiator later and peeled his limp socks from his feet, shivers tingling through him as cool air tickled his skin. Delighted babble, high-pitched and animated, trickled out onto the landing, occasionally intermingled with deep baritones, and the sound drew John like a siren song into the living room. He quickly shrugged off his coat and hung it on the rack next to Sherlock's Belstaff then stepped round the corner to the kitchen where the sounds were coming from.

The emotions that fluttered in his chest at the sight before him were an amalgamation of several, all entwined and settling honey-warm in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock was sat at the table with his laboratory things sprawled out across its surface and Carrie was stood in his lap, a hand supporting her as she waved a pipette at an agar dish in front of her. There was no lessening in her gleeful jabbering. Dressed in a vest baby grow and dark curls wild, she looked fresh from a bath, her cheeks a faint rosy red.

‘...and this dish clearly shows the effect of direct sunlight on the early stages of mould development,’ said Sherlock, tilting a plate just out of Carrie’s reach so she could see it. ‘Much like dust, mould is eloquent.’

Carrie giggled and pointed her pipette at the dish, her garbled chatter sounding as though she were lecturing Sherlock on the merits of his study. Returning the dish back to the table, Sherlock shifted his hold on her and glanced over at John who was still stood on the threshold between the living room and kitchen, damp clothes forgotten.   

‘Afternoon, John,’ he said.

Carrie squawked, brandishing the pipette, clearly not impressed Sherlock's attention had been diverted, and John felt a smile pull his lips as Sherlock looked down at her. She stared back up at him for a moment before waving the pipette at the agar dishes with an imperious air.

‘Unless the samples are put in solution, this can’t be used,’ Sherlock told her, grasping the hand clutching the pipette.

Carrie grunted, keeping hold of the pipette, and leant forward, reaching for the dishes. Sherlock immediately pushed them further away, the hand braced on her chest preventing her from getting too close. Her indignant protest and offended glare at Sherlock had John chuckling.

‘Tea?’ asked John once his laughter died away, still watching Carrie attempting to reach the agar dishes.

Sherlock's grateful expression was enough to have the kettle switched on straight away.  

 

-:-:-:-

_Saturday 19 th March, 2016_

A loud wail startled John through his sleepy morning stupor as he showered. Pausing with an ear directed to the door, he heard another sharp screech filled with annoyance and frustration, and he frowned. He’d left Carrie on the living room floor to play with various toys as she watched the children’s channel, a routine morning task, while Sherlock pottered between his bedroom and the kitchen, keeping an eye on her and ensuring she didn’t attempt anything she shouldn’t.

_So why’s she wailing_? he thought as another sounded, more desperate this time.

John hurriedly turned off the shower, grabbing his towel from the radiator to wrap it round his waist, and marched into the hallway, following the noise of Carrie’s protests. He nearly walked into Sherlock who appeared to be in a rush, hurriedly shrugging on his Belstaff as he sidestepped around John in the living room doorway.

‘Sherlock –’ he began, glancing at Carrie who was rocking forwards onto her hands and knees, clearly upset.

‘Lestrade texted,’ Sherlock said shortly.

‘But –’

Sherlock fluttered a hand towards the stairs. ‘He needs me down at the Yard.’ And, seemingly unaffected by Carrie’s upset mewls as she crawled towards the doorway, he trotted down them, buttoning up his coat.

‘Sherlock! Carrie’s–’

‘I’ll be back later!’ The slamming of the front door signalled his departure.

At the sound of wood reverberating against wood Carrie came to a halt, sat back on her haunches and blinked imploringly up at John, a soft whine building in her throat. After yesterday’s delights at the kitchen table and Sherlock's doting on her till bedtime, John knew she was undoubtedly confused by this morning’s indifference, despite it not being the first time. Sherlock's hot and cold attitude towards Carrie was also confusing John.

‘He’s got something in that big brain of his,’ he muttered, stooping to pick Carrie up who had began to grumble, her cheeks flushing a deep scarlet red as her frustrations reached their peak. ‘And whatever it is, I’m going to get it out of him. One way or another,’ he promised, pressing his lips to the top of her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked! I know it's short but next week's will be longer :D Next update - July 10


	6. Unconditional Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a point to say that this is how I view Sherlock as dealing with the issue mentioned within the chapter - I have a feeling he's quite determined not to 'influence' something he sees as John's. Anyway... Enjoy!

_Tuesday 3 rd May, 2016_

John was furious, flamingly so.

The sound of the front door opening and closing was followed by feet rapidly ascending the stairs. Sherlock appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed and eyes bright as he scanned the flat, burning stare focusing on John.

‘I need you to check...’ He trailed off as he noticed Carrie, perched on John’s lap where he was sat in his chair. ‘Oh.’

‘Yes, oh.’ John continued brushing a finger over Carrie’s forehead, gentle compared to the irritation bleeding into his voice. ‘Where have you been?’

The frenzied energy humming under Sherlock’s Belstaff shifted to something more uncomfortable, akin to a rabbit caught in the headlights only with less horror and more guilt. Fear was present, turning his eyes huge as his gaze flickered between John and Carrie. He said nothing.

John stood from his chair and let Sherlock receive the full brunt of Carrie’s vindictive yet beseeching look, quivering lip and all. She twisted in his arms so she could see Sherlock as John walked towards him, giving John a mouthful of curls that had grown so wild, despite scarcely being 14 months, it was like trying to tame Japanese knotweed. Her wide blue eyes were still teary, cheeks rose-pink, and she was sucking her thumb, something she only did when upset.   

‘Where have you been?’ repeated John, attempting, with difficulty, to keep his voice level for Carrie’s benefit. ‘Because I have just spent the last twenty-four hours trying to calm your daughter down and you’ve been unreachable –’  

‘Carrie isn’t –’ began Sherlock.

‘Carrianna Viola Watson is as much your daughter as she is mine,’ snapped John and Carrie whined, swivelling in his arms to throw him a reproachful glare. ‘I don’t care what has been said but you’re her father as well, not just me.’  

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, appearing not to know where to rest his gaze. ‘John, I –’

‘She’s been asking for you since this morning. Did you think about that?’

As if to emphasise his point, Carrie whirled back to face Sherlock, almost toppling out of John’s arms, and removed her thumb from her mouth. ‘Sher-doc,’ she said quietly then, louder, with a stubby finger pointed accusingly in his direction, ‘Sher-doc!’

Sherlock was impassive, face deliberately blank as he returned John’s livid gaze. ‘Lestrade required my assistance,’ he finally answered, tone void.

‘You left her, Sherlock!’ John fought the urge to punch the git’s aloof expression off his face. ‘It took me nearly an hour to finish the shopping and I came home to find Carrie screaming her head off and you gone.’

No emotion, no nothing.

John clenched his jaw and anger bit hot in his stomach. ‘What if something had happened to her, Sherlock? What if she’d had a fit? What if she managed to climb out of her cot and broke something or hit her head? What would you have done?’ While Sherlock remained cold, Carrie began to squirm in John’s arms, pitiful mewls emanating from her as his voice rose. ‘She’s barely a year old and you think it’s okay to leave her on her own?’

Silence.

‘Say something!’ demanded John.

‘What am I supposed to say?’ Sherlock challenged, his eyes like glass – beautiful but empty.

‘Tell me why the hell you left her! I don’t understand you at the moment.’ John shifted the still-wriggling Carrie to his hip and scrubbed a hand over his face. ‘One minute you’re fine with looking after her, reading to her before she goes to bed, showing her your experiments, then the next you’re like a spooked animal, avoiding her like she’s going to eat you. What are you, afraid of her or something?’

Sherlock scowled at him. ‘I don’t wish to talk about it.’

He tried to push past but John was not having any of that. Standing his ground, he widened his shoulders, ignoring the twinge in his bad one, and threw his worst glare at Sherlock.

‘Of course it matters, you idiot!’ John immediately regretted shouting as Carrie squawked, her writhing increasing. He snarled in a lowered voice, ‘She doesn’t have a clue what to think about you. Hell, I don’t even know what to think.’

‘John.’ Sherlock’s tone was filled with warning as he pushed past.

Carrie squawked again, pudgy hands reaching out for Sherlock, who shied sideways as though she were highly contagious. John’s leash on his anger snapped.

‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ he roared.

Sherlock flinched, jaw clenching as he shrugged off his coat and hung it on the rack, but he said nothing, glancing warily between John and Carrie who had pressed her face into John’s neck. ‘Leave it.’

‘If you think I’m going to leave it, then you don’t know me, Sherlock, because I have spent the last 14 months looking after _our_ daughter with barely any help from you.’ John felt, rather than heard, Carrie’s whine as she tried to bury herself into his jumper. She hated it when they argued.

‘She isn’t –’

‘She is, Sherlock! We spoke about this when she was born. _We_ agreed with your brother and the Professor that _we_ would take her and that _we_ would look after her.’

‘I merely –’  

‘You merely what?’ John snarled. ‘You merely helped? If that’s your version of helping then you might’ve not helped at all. Why is it so hard for you...’ He trailed off as stark realisation slammed into him, a train-wreck at a hundred miles an hour. ‘You never wanted her,’ he breathed, the bottom of his stomach dropping.

Carrie began writhing once more.

Sherlock’s impassive expression twisted to horror, caught out. ‘No! John, I –’ His eyes were wide once more, the verdigris glass shattered to reveal the roiling emotion beneath.

Carrie placed her hands on John’s chest and pushed.

‘ _Why_ didn’t you tell me?’ John tightened his grip to prevent her from toppling.

Carrie wailed.

 Sherlock glanced anxiously at her as his hands flittered at his sides. ‘It’s not what –’

Carrie twisted to face Sherlock.

John snarled. ‘How much more obvious –’

Carrie lunged forwards.

‘ _I’m scared of her becoming like me_!’

The entire room stilled. Not even the dust motes trapped under the beams of the lights seemed to move as Carrie quietened and John stared at Sherlock who looked as though the confession had been brutally dragged from the depths of his chest. His eyes were huge and guileless, face shocked and his posture screamed horrified trepidation, expecting some form of backlash for his outburst.

‘ _What_?’ John managed. All this time he thought Sherlock was being cavalier when really, he had been terrified.

Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘You know I detest repeating myself.’ His voice was quiet.

‘Don’t,’ John warned as he watched Carrie glance between him and Sherlock. ‘Don’t do that.’

Sherlock gestured nervously to the sofa. ‘Can we sit? Please?’

‘Yes.’

As Sherlock walked past him to reach the sofa, Carrie lunged for him again. Instantly, Sherlock grasped her under the arms and lifted her from John’s hold, tucking her under his chin with a hand clutching the back of her head so her curls wrapped themselves round his fingers. He wordlessly settled at one end of the sofa, watching John like a cornered creature might its predator while Carrie sank herself into the folds of his suit jacket, clearly relieved the shouting had ceased.

‘I want you to start from the beginning, Sherlock,’ said John, remaining where he was, arms bereft now that Carrie was gone. ‘Tell me why.’

Sherlock appeared to consider saying nothing but something prevailed and he hesitantly opened his mouth. ‘In all honesty, I don’t know where the beginning is. I do, however, know why.’ He sighed, glancing down at Carrie. ‘I’m concerned that if I have too much influence on her life, she’ll grow up as I did, and that, John, is a lonely experience. There’s strong evidence to show children learn their behaviour and if she observes my behaviour for long enough, she will develop similar characteristics.’ His eyes flickered to John. ‘I don’t want that for any child of yours.’

Any remnants of anger John felt towards Sherlock vanished under the flood of overwhelming fondness and relief, melting the hard lump of bitterness lodged in his stomach. Of course, in Sherlock’s mind, his reasoning would make perfect sense and he would see no need to explain it to John. ‘She’s yours, too. And you do realise there are other theories with strong evidence about child development such as the temperament theory,’ he pointed out, trying to keep his voice as level as possible.

Sherlock brushed a hand through Carrie’s curls, carefully untangling his fingers from them once he reached the ends, then placed a kiss on top of her head. She leaned back and looked up at him with wide eyes, reaching up with a hand for a gesture she reserved solely for him; she placed the tips of her fingers against his lips for a few seconds before returning her head back under his chin, her nose pressed to the side of his neck. He resumed stroking her hair. ‘Of course I realise,’ he said quietly, keeping his gaze from John. ‘I just...’ He trailed off, seemingly to become engrossed in Carrie’s curls.

John’s heart twisted, torn between wanting to help Sherlock say what he needed and leaving him to stumble through his emotions so he could not simply latch onto something John suggested, pleasing him rather than finding the source of the problem. If Sherlock deduced what he wanted to hear, not what he needed to hear, he would close up and the solution to whatever was causing his strange behaviour would never be found.

Sherlock finally looked up at John and, while his face was taciturn, it was far from expressionless – he appeared more than prepared to sacrifice everything in order to ensure whatever he envisioned would not happen. ‘I don’t think it is suitable for me to remain here in Carrie’s best interests.’

As Sherlock spoke, John walked round the cluttered coffee table and knelt before the pair, his knees popping in protest. Sherlock’s gaze locked with his and John could see the discomfort within, no walls up to protect him.

‘And why is that?’ asked John, stabilising himself by placing a hand on Sherlock’s knee.

Those viridian eyes shifted momentarily to the breadth of John’s hand before refocusing on his face. ‘John...’ He trailed off and the uncertainty in his voice sent fondness racing through John’s veins.

‘I want an answer.’ John was not going to let this slide, no matter what. ‘I _need_ an answer, Sherlock.’

His face twisted, his moue for ‘sentiment is making me uncomfortable’, but John left him afloat, searching for the words he needed to answer the question. Sherlock moved his gaze from John’s, leant back so he was sprawled on the sofa, Carrie happily following, and pursed his lips. He continued to brush a hand through her hair.

‘Sherlock?’ pressed John, desperate for an answer and yet not wanting to force the words from him.

‘I don’t want her resenting me when she’s older.’ The words were so quite they were nearly lost in the hum of London’s heartbeat. ‘My influence in her life could be highly detrimental.’

John didn’t care for social normalcy, something he had clearly shown right from the word go with Sherlock, and continued to the present. The only person’s opinion he valued was holding the child he treasured and that was all he cared for right now. Without giving him a warning, John half-rose and pulled Sherlock towards him, wrapping his arms round bony shoulders and working round Carrie between them.

Sherlock was rigid against him, head pulled back as he tried to catch John’s gaze. But John ignored the unspoken attempt and tucked his face into the right side of Sherlock’s neck since the left was taken up by Carrie. He tried to let the warmth, the desire and the tenderness he felt for him bleed into his actions and tell Sherlock exactly what he thought.

Increment by increment, Sherlock began to relax until he was almost entirely supported by John, Carrie unfazed at being in the middle. At that moment, John’s shoulder issued its complaints, alongside a twinge from his back at the awkward position, and he was forced straighten. Sherlock opened his mouth but John shushed him, settling onto the sofa and leaning back, tugging Sherlock to join him and draping an arm over his shoulders. Sherlock wordlessly slumped against his side, head tucked in the juncture where his shoulder met his neck.

‘Any daughter of mine isn’t going to care about whether you’re world’s biggest pain in the backside nor is she going to care whether you keep heads in the fridge and fingers in the toaster,’ John told him quietly, failing to ignore the scent of the inky curls. ‘All she’ll care about is whether you can compete with who loves each other more, whether you’ll be the one to help her when she doesn’t know what to do and whether you’ll teach her all the brilliant tricks you know. She’s not going to care if she learns a few things from you that she perhaps shouldn’t or if some people can’t cope with you.’ John paused. ‘She’s a child, Sherlock. She doesn’t care.’ John cleared his throat and continued, feeling as though he perhaps was laying too many emotions bare. ‘ _I_ don’t care what other people think because _I_ think you make a great father to her and _I_ want you to stay. I know what it’s like not to have you around and you’re just as much a father to her as I am. I wouldn’t want it any other way.’

Sherlock was motionless, save for the slow rise and fall of his chest and the corresponding rush of warm breath that fluttered over John’s skin. For a moment, John thought Sherlock had entered his mind palace to escape the discomfort but the minuscule movement of his eyelashes revealed he was well and truly present.

‘I –’ The deep baritone rumbled beyond the word, a series of garbled sounds that were rapidly cut off. Pulling back, Sherlock sent fear lancing through John, believing he’d said too much, but the openness of ultramarine eyes quashed his panic. ‘Are you sure?’ His voice was filled with hesitance.

‘Yes.’ John did not think he had ever spoken with quite such conviction before as he stared at the man who held everything he’d ever wanted. ‘Yes, Sherlock, I’m sure.’

John was unable to see what Sherlock was thinking as the man buried his face into John’s neck, clutching Carrie to his chest. The scent of his curls flooded John’s nose and he wrapped his arms back round him, fighting the urge to turn the moment into something more.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked! Since I'm heading to Australia on 14 July, the next update may not happen for a while but, if I get a chance, I will update again before I go. In any case, until the next update, have fun!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback welcome :) Next update - June 12


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